


Easter Tradition

by Sagittaria_sagittifolia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, just fluff, toastbabies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8163965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sagittaria_sagittifolia/pseuds/Sagittaria_sagittifolia
Summary: For d12drabbles (.tumblr.com) prompt number #14 Holiday.The toastbabies are coloring eggs for Easter with Peeta and Katniss just watch her little family. Fluff





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 1) Not sure if every Christian-based country does this, but during Easter we (especially children) paint boiled eggs and eggshells (the raw egg gets a little hole and we blow it out) and then eat the boiled eggs on Easter Sunday and decorate the house with the eggshells, on strings or in little baskets with hay. My little sister and I did this every year with my parents, and there was always paint everywhere! It was so much fun, a great family time and always full of laughter. Nostalgic memories of my childhood, our Easter tradition. P.S.: Sorry for the uncreative Toast Babies names and kudos to the person who originally invented them, sadly I have no idea who this was.
> 
> 2) I don´t own “The Hunger Games” or any of the characters. They belong to Suzanne Collins. English is also not my first language. Sadly, I didn’t have time to send it to my beta and only looked over it once, so sorry for all mistakes.

“Daddy, Daddy!! Look, look! Look at my eggs! Aren’t they the bestest eggs ever?! In the whole world? Daddy! You are not looking!”

I can hear the voice of my daughter before I even reach the door. Her high-pitched tone is full of excitement and cracks in her desperate attempt to get the full attention of her Daddy. Something she didn’t have to compete for in the past, with anyone. Not even with me.

She is an absolute Daddy’s Girl, and her Daddy would do anything for her. She has him wrapped around her little finger and knows it and has no qualm about using it to her own advantage. Like the extra cookies before dinner or lunch, or the “one more bedtime story” so she can stay awake longer. Peeta doesn’t have any problems doing anything for his little girl. She just has to ask.

But now she has competition for her Daddy´s attention, a big one. Even though her little brother is still too young to speak, to walk, or to understand that his Dad would steal the moon from the sky for him, he is still gaining his great share of Peeta´s attention.

A situation Willow doesn’t like so much, because suddenly there is someone with whom she has to share her Daddy’s praises and cookies and bedtime stories. To work against this jealousy, Peeta spends more time alone with her and with the two together, so that Willow sees there is no reason to be jealous at all. Not such a difficult task, after all even with the ‘fight’ about Peeta´s attention with Rye, she is fiercely protective of him. In the week after his birth, she would sneak into his nursery at night, checking on him. When we found her one morning lying next to his crib, sleeping on the ground, we asked her what she was doing. Her answer: “I just wanted to see if he was still there…and protect him from the monsters under the bed. Because I am a big sister now, and that is what big sisters do. They protect their little siblings.”

I still get tears in my eyes thinking about it. How is it possible that I helped to create such a sweet, compassionate, brave, fierce little girl?

“I see them, Pumpkin. They look fabulous!….Oh! No, buddy, the colors don´t go into your mouth… they go on the eggs!”

I can hear the chuckle in his voice and have to smile myself, trying to picture my curious son trying to eat everything that is in his reach. I slowly open the door and walk into the house. They haven’t heard me yet, and I hope it will stay this way for a while. I love nothing more than just to watch my small family when they are unaware of it. Just looking at their smiling faces, full of laughter and life and being happy. After all the pain, after all these years, I don’t regret saying yes to my little angels. I don’t regret saying yes when Peeta asked for them.

I creep on silent feet to the kitchen, leaving my hunting bag, the bow and arrows on the floor in the entrance room. The arrows make a clinking noise when they hit the floor. I stand still, waiting to see if my family heard me.

But my son is still squealing, my husband still chuckling, and my daughter still talking to her father about “the bestest, most beautifullest eggs in the whole wide world.”

When I reach the door to the kitchen I have to bite my lip at the picture I see in front of me. The big marble counter in the middle of the room that Peeta normally used to bake on is littered with boiled eggs and empty eggshells, painted and unpainted, paint tubes in all colors of the rainbow lying open and closed around. My husband praising the colorful eggs Willow has painted so far, his focus completely on her. Her little cheeks stretched into the biggest smile I have ever seen, beaming up at her father, puffing her chest out in pride, standing next to him.

My little son Rye is in his highchair, with colors and half-painted eggs in front of him. More color on his cheeks and in his blond curls than on the eggs.

My little boy sees me first, his ears picking up my chuckle that I can’t keep in any longer. He has my hearing, my aim, and will probably be a hunter like me. But his nature is exactly like his father. Always beaming, full of laughter, like his sister, both are my sunshine. His eyes lock on mine and his babbling of half-formed words gets louder. His pudgy little arms pump in the air, an egg smashing on the kitchen floor, paint splashing around, but I can only smile, happy seeing my little boy getting so excited to see me.

Peeta’s and Willow’s eyes go first to Rye when he starts to gets louder and then in the direction of his look. Peeta beams at me, and Willow´s smile gets even bigger, something I didn’t think was possible at all.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy. You are back! Look, look! I painted eggs with daddy and Rye! Look! Aren’t they the prettiest eggs ever?!” she asks me when she runs to my side, two eggs in her hands, paint smeared on the little apron she wears, a streak on her cheek.

I crouch in front of her and inspect the eggs carefully. Nodding to myself when I move her hands this and that way. “You are right, baby. They are the best I have ever seen.”

She jumps up in happiness, and I have to chuckle again to see her so eager. She runs back behind the counter, climbing on her little bench Peeta built her so she could help him baking, and slowly and carefully puts the two eggs down, taking a new one to paint.

“I make another one now. For Uncle Haymitch. His house is so ugly. It will be more beautiful with the eggs.”

I have to smile and look at Peeta, who is grinning like crazy about the thought of grumpy Haymitch sitting in a house decorated with painted eggs.

I walk over to my three artists, caress the hair of Willow, smack a kiss to Rye’s cheek, which he repays with laughter and smacking his paint-covered hands to my face, and then turn to Peeta.

“How was hunting?” he asks. 

“A haven of tranquility,” I answer and throw my body in his outstretched arms, kissing him on the lips.

“So I had to come back to my little chaos, because I could not live without it.” I hope he can see in my eyes how much I love them all, that I am happy, even when I need the peace of the forest sometimes and when I have a bad day. I don’t regret my life with him, with the children, even when there is paint everywhere in my kitchen.

Their happiness, laughter, smiles are worth it.


End file.
